Wine and Blood
by emjalen
Summary: The favorite slave of a far away Empress plays a dangerous game over wine that may end in blood with the Elvenking of Mirkwood. Not for Tolkien purists. AU for mentions of a distinctly Roman like culture.


**Disclaimer**- Middle Earth and all it encompasses, including Thranduil (sadly), are the creative property of the heirs of J.R.R. Tolkien and Ballantine Books.

**Rated**- For mentions of slavery and the realities of that life.

**Warnings-** Not for Tolkien purists. AU for the Roman terminology and probably Thranduil's character.

* * *

The slave took a small sip of the dark, unfamiliar wine as the hard, if not bright green eyes of the one they called the Elvenking bore into her. Her own eyes were demurely lowered; she did not know the rules here, would not meet his gaze until he gave her explicit permission.

King, emperor, or pharaoh, it made no difference. Not one would hesitate to take a disrespectful woman's flesh off her back.

"What is your name, lady?" he asked her in Westron less accented than her own, but still touched with the lyrical language she'd heard him speak to his own people.

"I am called Nachni by many."

She was not going to make this easy for him...nor would she meet those eyes...

"That is not your name."

It was not a question.

Distantly, Nachni admired the complexity of his voice, the way he wielded the texture and sound of it like a razor-sharp scalpel, so subtle it would take the uneducated time to realize they were bleeding to their death, even as the scarred skin of her back tightened. For someone who had not played bloody games with a dead emperor, where her survival and that of others depended on her ability to read moods even as he tried to trick her, the Elvenking may have sounded gentle even as he pushed.

Nachni was not that woman.

And he was no Caesar Augustus Octavius.

No, the Elvenking was all steel and blood and coldness.

Lucky for her, Nachni had long stopped feeling the pain of her own blood being spilt.

The dark-skinned woman lifted her head, face utterly blank, dark eyes colliding with the terrible gaze of an immortal being as a fire that refused to be beaten out of her flared traitorously in her breast bone.

Eyes hard and beautiful as emerald slammed into her own; her pulse jumped against her skin. Breath stopped in her throat.

Nachni's voice was that of a slave who had survived when other favorites of mortals who deemed themselves gods died. Tranquil, serene, and not a hint of submission.

"My name is whatever you desire it to be, Elvenking of Mirkwood."

His gaze...shifted somehow, something in those eyes of his changing, but Nachmi could not read the feeling within, and she did not dare try to study him for long.

Blank as wood, cool as slate, and with none of the hidden depths of water even as she coated herself with it's deceiving nature, this was her mask.

"If you wished to be called Nachmi, then the Lady Nachmi you shall be known be," the Elvenking said at last, in an apparent concession that was really anything but.

She said nothing, eyes focused on no specific point below his.

Distant singing in the saddest, most beautiful language she had ever heard whispered into her ears; somewhere, water ran hushed over stone. The sound of her breathing was not loud, but the only sound in the room, and Nachmi focused on turning to stone.

It was a handy trick, one taught to her by a brutalized niece of a different Emperor, who, nonetheless, stayed mentally intact enough to conspire in a flawlessly executed murder of her uncle.

Her chest slowed, until her breath was but a whisper, the movement of her breasts tightened until she would appear a statue of warmest colors. Her face never changed even as her eyes, despite her best effort, blanked out to blandness. She did not know how long she kneeled before the Elvenking. Later, far later, the pains for kneeling on hard stone, back straight, head not fully bowed would rush in a flood into her muscles and make them scream against her. Now, though, not even the freezing of her blood in this barbaric northern forest could be felt.

Finally, the Elvenking spoke. "You claim to be an ambassador, but you act as an impetuous servant."

"Slave," Nachni corrected politely. Remember your role. "While I do serve, Elvenking, I am no servant." Her wrist bangles gently clanked together as a hennaed hand raised to demurely touch the exquisitely wrought collar of orange-gold that clung to her throat.

Hard green eyes tracked on her collar, and then the Elvenking leaped from his throne, face beautiful and suddenly terrible in rage. "Slavery is outlawed by every kingdom in Middle Earth, and that despicable practice of men has never been practiced by the elves! It will not be practiced in my forest!"

Had Nachni not been frozen in fear and shock, she would have flung herself at his feet, sobbing and apologizing for her error. A prudent slave would have done so. If she'd had any sense, she'd have ran for her horse. Instead she knelt, face blank, eyes soulless, and did not move even as his outraged roar echoed in the large hall of carved stone.

Feet struck the ground in rhythm beyond her, and several guards burst into the chamber, halting when all they saw was a kneeling woman and their enraged monarch. "My king?"

The Elvenking collapsed back onto his wooden throne with an explosive sigh, a hand covering his eyes. "Go," he told them curtly.

They left.

Nachmi heard herself speak, voice all faint tones of amusement and prudish amusement. "I am one of my Empress' favored slaves and am ambassador. I was given to you as a gift, Elvenking; a slave to both of you and her ambassador. You may, of course, free me if I offend your senses, but I do not think you could afford the price my Empress will demand for my collar."

Unreadable green eyes met hers'. "And what is the price of a slave, Lady Nachni?"

She gave him a cool look, even as her heart raced. "A slave boy bought in the markets is but ten silvers. A slave girl is a mere copper chip. I, of course, am far more than any of you barbaric, infidel northerners can afford."

His eyes sharpened, his voice scathing. "Take care with your words, Lady Nachni. We northerners do not tolerate such ill-warranted respect from little girls."

Nachni stood, her smirk, her eyes, the set of her chin all set in cold scorn and mocking respect. "I have not been a little girl since my Domina made me a whore at age six, Elvenking" she informed him, haughty as an Eastern princess. "Now, unless you intend to send me back to my Empress as insult, I do believe I shall excuse myself for the night."

Silence. Then- "No, Lady Nachni. My hall shall hold you for time your Empress offered." He stood, robes cloaking his tall figure in a ripple.

Nachni's eyes widened.

"A good night, Elvenking," she said hastily." She could not give control of the game back to him, allow him to push her back. Her curtesy was low, her forehead almost touching the stone, before she straightened in a dancer's move, turned on her heel, and strode out.

She'd pay for it later, doubtless. The Elvenking was no man; he was as ruthless as Octavius, and Octavius had been a monster. He would not let her get away with walking out first. Until then, though?

Until then, the game had begun. Her mistress would be pleased.

* * *

_I really have no excuses for this, except Kate Quinn's fantastic __Mistress of Rome__stuck in my head. It sure was fun to write though! This is my first venture into LotR fandom; I've never written Thranduil before, but I figure he'd be pretty outraged about the idea of slavery. As for the blatant Roman references, I've got this private head canon that societies like Persia, Egypt, Rome, India, and China all exist in Middle Earth, they just haven't discovered Tolkien's bit of the world and vice versa. _

_Kudos to you if you've read through all that; as I've said, this is my first venture into LotR fandom and Thranduil's character- I'd love to know what you what thought about it! _


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